


Rest In Pizza

by MisterOdd



Category: Da Vinci Code (2006), Pizza Kids, The Davinci Code
Genre: DaVinci - Freeform, Gen, Murder Mystery, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29345502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterOdd/pseuds/MisterOdd
Summary: A murder happens in Vatican City. Dante DaVinci, a cryptographer, is brought in to determine what this has to do with a war of cheeses and the Pizza Kids.





	Rest In Pizza

Rest In Pizza

1  
  
The museums and galleries of the Vatican. Containing magnificent relics and images displaying generations worth of touchstones. Depicting the pinnacles of devotion, luxury, and obedience. All of which built upon countless bones and even more secrets.

Currently, these grand spaces are dark. For all we know the Vatican has a bed time, and this seems to be it. In this darkness there is but one sound coming from the Pio Clementico Museum. It is the hurried clomping of a hooded man who is running to find an exit door. Despite not being accompanied by any other noise, these steps are filling the night with a sound of panic. Each step echoes in such a way that a listener could hear it from any part of these halls. What little moonlight can sneak its way into the Pio Clementico finds its way to many of the large ancient Roman statues, creating the illusion that there may be many pursuers. The running man, already having a hard enough time seeing past the hood he has chosen to wear, finds himself being startled every few steps by the cold gaze of a dimly lit marble face. This adds a lot of weaving and jumps away from walls as he navigates from room to room.

Seeing a wider open area, the running man manages to hurdle a small gate meant to keep tourists in line for the Sala Rotunda portion of the museum. There is an exit possibly in his line of sight. Feeling something other than fear and panic for the first time this night, he quickens his pace.

No sooner has the running man felt a glimpse of hope, he then finds himself being struck down by a figure that has suddenly leapt out from behind a stone column. This new figure is also donning a dark hooded cloak (hoods, admittedly, seeming to be the clothing most suitable for by those who roam the Vatican in secret). They make a wide slashing motion with a blade protruding from a cloaked arm and cut the running man across his thigh. He hits the ground hard, rolling forward as his running momentum keeps him going. Not incapacitated by this, the running man finds the immediate adrenaline needed to rise from his fall and begin running again. His pace has been slightly limped by the unavoidable pain in his bloodied thigh. He gets closer to an exit that leads him past the Gregoriano Engizio museum to the Pigna courtyard. The pain in his leg overpowering any feeling of hope this sight may have given him before.

The new figure, blade still in hand, pursues. Despite the slightly gimped stride of the runner, they manage to make it to the grass of the courtyard. The attacker, giving chase at a leisurely jogging pace, catches up just as soon as the runner's feet touch green. They raise their blade enough that the moonlight gives it a shimmer. The runner looks over their shoulder to see the shining circular shape of a pizza cutter. The blade comes down and slices across the runner's back. The circular blade allows the attacker to fluidly cut the runner with both up and down swings of their arm. The runner tries to block their body and in their defense the blade ravages their arms with several lengthy cuts.

The pain becomes too much and causes the runner to collapse. Overwhelmed and nearing shock, the runner stops their screams of anguish and begins chanting. Exhausted from running and the wounds, their voice is substantially hushed.

Amidst the continued slicing the attacker hears: “mi piace la pizza con il pomodoro...Ik hou van pizza met tomaat...”

The sound of these words enrages the attacker. They cease their swinging then lean down towards their bleeding, babbling victim.

“I will teach you to be silent” they hiss before delivering a final slice across their victim's neck.

Burbled through the blood and fading breath comes the runner's final words: “ “mi piace la pizza con il pomodoro...Ik hou van pizza met tomaat...”

“Never again will you...” growls the attacker as they stand over the hooded corpse lying bleeding in this courtyard. Very soon it lies alone as the attacker slinks stealthily to unknown parts of Vatican City. Vanishing completely.

2

This very same evening three men have gathered in a small apartment in Palermo, Sicily. They are standing in the dining area. The chairs have been removed. They surround a hand drawn map of Palermo's Arellera borough that is laid out in a circular dining room table under a single lamp light. There are small plastic blocks and toy cars sitting beside it.

“All tha pahrts shough time out per-fect” says Mikey, in his cockney accent. He is a tall Englishman wearing the black turtleneck sweater and black wool cap of someone very keen to perform a burglary.

“You got the car?” says Aurelio to whomever is willing to respond. He is a native Sicilian sporting a similarly black jacket that reflects his similarly keen attitude towards performing burglaries.

“I got it” answers Rico, a Spaniard who has lived in Sicily for the last twenty years. He is wearing a blue denim shirt and brown pants, but this outfit in no way dampens his consensus of keenness towards the burglary this trio are plotting.

“Goodie gum drops” says Mikey as he starts to place the blocks and toy cars onto the map.

For the next two hours they lay out their plan to steal a large cache of gold bullion from a boat that will be docking at the Port of Palermo, transferring it to a different boat at the port, then travelling with it all from Sicily to the mainland of Italy. The plan will require swiftness, a point that is risen by Mikey numerous times throughout their planning. After the initial planning, they go over it no less than six more times to ensure that each step is more or less muscle memory for them. It is a long tiresome night for them, but one that is looking to pay out enormous dividends by the week's end.

3

The sun always seems to shine extra golden on the biggest structures within Vatican City. The beams of light seeming to favour the fortunate. Surely this is by design as the inhabitants for the last few generations have made sure that luxury was a key part of the architecture and decor. Literal gold embedded into their houses of faith.

This morning, God's light shines on both the fortunate buildings...and the unfortunate soul who lies still in the courtyard. Their hood, initially used as a disguise, now their death shroud. Their blood, staining a portion of grass and concrete under them.

The first person to arrive at this scene is the Pope himself. The Pope, who happens to have a rather broad Chicago accent when not giving balcony speeches, arrives in the courtyard wearing an incredibly impressive, gold trimmed, evening robe.

“Hey watcha doin' ova dere?! It's 6 o'clack in da freakin' mornin'!” he asks, fiddling with the incredibly impressive sash of his incredibly impressive robe mid-stride.  
Running behind him is a pair of his personal security officers. “Your holiness, you have moved so quickly, it may not be safe out here!”

“Ah but dere's some freakin' guys out here who been makin' all dis noise all night, I tell ya, and I jus' couldn't sleep right? I mean, it was dah Vahtahcahn's freakin' bed time!” the Pope states loudly as they get nearer to the body. “Ah fuck, this guy's dead.”

The security officers catch up to the Pope who is standing over the hooded corpse.

“Your holiness, be careful” says one of the officers as they try to get between the Pope and the body.

“Oh what? Dis guy? Dead guys can't do nuttin'. I'm gettin' some freakin' breakfast” the Pope says without any sign of being shaken by the sight of this body. In his line of work, it'll take a lot more than one death to make him raise an eyebrow.

The Pope, fiddling again with the sash of his robe, storms away from the murder scene, presumably towards his breakfast. The officers stand at the body.

“I guess we gotta fetch the Cleaner. See if this is a bury job or a burn job” one says to the the other.

“I hope it's a burn. I don't wanna wait too long for breakfast neither” the other replies.

4

The Port of Palermo was light on pedestrian traffic this morning. Rico smokes a cigarette as he walks along one of the shorelines that has many recreational boats tied to their own designated docking space. Each bobbing lightly with the mild tide that is coming in this morning. Rico has a fishing boat parked in one of these spaces. He has no intentions of using it ever again. It sits there as an excuse to place him there in case any security footage shows his presence around the time of the robbery he and his two other cohorts have planned. He stops his strolling where his boat rests. He exhales one last puff from his cigarette, extinguishes it with a flick into the ocean water, then replaces the smoke in his lungs with a hearty inhalation of ocean air. He turns away from his boat and points himself towards the industrial area where sits some enormous tanker and container ships. The green hills behind them make for a refreshing vision. From a good enough distance, they manage to dwarf the impressively large equipment used to haul the large shipping containers on and off the boats. Rico appreciates this as he makes note of the entire area. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He looks at the screen and sees a text message from an _Unknown Sender_. This sender is only unknown to the phone service provider. Rico knows this is Mikey. Within the text are seemingly cryptic phrases, all written in Italian. Rico knows the codes they chose to speak in. He understands that he is being told that Mikey has heard from Aurelio and they are all done the planning they were to do there.

Aurelio has been working at the port for two years. A lengthy commitment in order to establish his own alibi for being frequently present there. He has sized up the type of ship the bullion will arrive in and figured out how they will get the bullion out. Mikey has evaluated how they will get it out of one part of the port to the other where Rico currently stands and has been planning how it will then be taken away in their own boat. Not the one that Rico has parked there, but one that will be bought and then used the one and only time. Then promptly destroyed.  
Each part is set. Now they await their time to strike.

5

Now the high noon sun shines over the Vatican's courtyard. No clouds. This does nothing to make the hooded corpse seem any less unfortunate.

Standing over it is homicide detective Antony Marazzi and the Cleaner, the Vatican's key resolver of serious problems. Most of said problems involve the disposal of a body. It is up to the Cleaner's discretion if it is a “bury” job, meaning authorities can be informed and proceedings can move ahead for a funeral or whatever is requested in the deceased's will, or if it is a “burn” job, where the body must disappear without any other fuss. Sometime' this also means making any witnesses disappear, but in this case the Pope holds a higher position of authority over the Cleaner, thus he is safe from any “cleaning.”

These two stand silently, each sipping coffees. Marazzi is in a respectable suit. One that would seem pedestrian on the streets of Italy, but likely reserved for special occasions in North America. The Cleaner wears an outfit that is unique to him. It has uniform that bears a resemblance to bishops in the Vatican, but in a dark blue hue. It could almost be mistaken for a non-religious garment except for it's cape. Those who were directly connected to the Vatican could wear such capes without fear of being mistaken for a mad person, or worse, a magician.

As Detective Marazzi sips his drink he thinks about how he has never had such good coffee, nor will he ever again unless invited back to the Vatican. He dares not ask why it is so good. He has heard rumours (ones that rang as completely plausible in his head) that the Vatican's secrets about their good coffee pre-dates some of the more epic of their best guarded secrets. Some have said that the Crusades were partially to blame for certain groups of people questing to find the truth behind this coffee. It is also said that one would have a greater chance caressing the bones of St. Peter himself before discovering just how this immaculate coffee came to be. Is it divinity? Not even God knows.

At any rate, the coffee is very good and these two men are awaiting the arrival of an expert. Not of coffee, but of ancient text. They await Dante DaVinci. A man whose name is not only a contrived combination of alliteration and historical references, but a name synonymous with scripture, codes, symbols, cryptography, and any form of texts or symbols throughout the ages. He shares his time between Italy, the south of France, and the USA because that is a sexy way to describe how you live. He happens to be in the Italian portion of his calendar, therefore could be quickly summoned to Vatican City.

With a lunch bag and a coffee in hand (neither of them of a deadly Vatican quality), DaVinci enters the courtyard and walks up to the two who are standing like stoic vultures over the corpse.

“I appreciate you coming all the way here Professor DaVinci” says Det. Marazzi who is honestly just guessing that he is a professor of some kind.

“Not a problem detective. So long as you don't mind that I brought my lunch with me?” replies DaVinci, brazenly pulling a piece of cold pizza out of his lunch bag and taking a bite while still approaching.

“So long as what you are about to see does not make you lose your lunch, figuratively and literally” adds the Cleaner.

“Oh, I know very well how things can be lost in a many chambers of the Vatican” says DaVinci, with at least a pinch of yet-to-be-earned smugness.

“Very good Mr. DaVinci, very good.”

DaVinci reaches the group and they all make their introduction to each other. The Detective gives his name and profession, the Cleaner's is one in the same so we offers just that, and DaVinci gives his full name but leaves out his profession (which the Detective finds quietly dissatisfying).

“I can't imagine what the Vatican wants with a lowly bookworm like me” DaVinci says, before taking another bite of pizza then talking through the food in his mouth. “What's the story?”

“This” the Detective bluntly states then unveils the face of the corpse.

“Looks like a death most foul. But I'm no detective. You are, from what I understand. So what use am I?”

“This” the detective says, just as bluntly as he had previously, and continues to remove the cloth from the body, revealing an array of tattoos. DaVinci looks them over. Some are sentences, others seem to be charts. None are coloured.

“Ok...I see now.”

The Cleaner spreads his cape widely out like he was very suddenly auditioning to play Dracula in a 1970s Hammer film.

“This man is the Curator!” he declares with a type of emphasis that could only be delivered by a man in a cape. “He oversaw and tended to the most precious of our gallery treasures.”

“Did he have a name aside from the Curator?” asks DaVinci.

“Surely, but that did not matter. His life was dedicated to his curating, therefore the Curator was the only name he required. He was entirely devoted to his tasks. Assigned to them for life. And of course was 3/4 a eunuch.”

“Pardon?”  
  
“We need you to help decipher these images” the Cleaner says as he lowers his cape and gestures towards the Curator's corpse.

DaVinci does his best to get his head past the word “eunuch” and looks at the tattoos. He takes another bite of his lunch pizza and squats over the body.

“You're unable to understand these?”

“If we understood them, why would we consult you?”

“Fair enough. And I don't suppose either of you is Dutch?”

“Dutch? As in Arnold Schwarzenegger's character in Predator?” asks Det. Marazzi.

“No. Not in the slightest.”

“We are both native to Italy sir. Why do you ask?”

“Because most of these tattoos are Dutch I mean, not their origin. Who knows where they were drawn. But these words, these sentences here...” DaVinci explains as he guides his finger over the inked portions of the Curator's body, “...these are primarily written in Dutch.”

DaVinci places an entire slice of pizza in his mouth as a reward for his discovery while the other two men lean over closer to better examine the lettering.

“Very good Mr. DaVinci. Then translation should be simple enough. What about the other symbols?” asks the Cleaner.

The largest of these tattoos appears to be a drawing of some kind of incomplete pie. It has the geometric accuracy of a mathematical pie chart but nothing around it indicates what the divisions represent. DaVinci considers this and wonders to himself if it may be meant to give directions rather than a measurement. He takes out his smart phone and starts taking pictures of the tattoos.

“I have some ideas but will have to find some reference materials to assist me.”

“Can you at least read the Dutch phrases?”

“I can.”

“What do they say?” asks the Detective, eagerly.

“They speak of pizza. The enjoyment of it. Repeated declarations of this enjoyment and listing of a few favourite ingredients. It reminds me...” Dante's voice trails of in conjunction with his thoughts.

“Of what?” asks the Cleaner, now sharing some of the Detective's eagerness and curiosity.

“...of a song. One I heard years ago but it was truly impossible to forget. It was by some Dutch children. They sang about pizza.”

“Who are they?”

“All I know is they also called themselves the Pizza Kids. Not much else is known about them. Their history is almost as guarded in secrets as the ones you keep here Mr. Cleaner.”

“But why? Why did the Curator commit their words to his flesh? And why was he killed?”

“Perhaps these Pizza Kids would have a connection? Or an answer?” adds the Detective.

The Vatican is many things. Beyond being a site of worship, and residence for some who are considered to be the most Holy, it is a gallery of art, a gallery of bones, and a gallery of secrets. Perhaps the grandest of which is etched onto the flesh the gallery's Curator. Perhaps this is a secret even grander than that of the Vatican's coffee? Dante DaVinci dares to find out. He sips his coffee then eats the last portion of his pizza lunch.

“Perhaps they would detective. Perhaps they would....it's a shame they're dead.”

6

Several tonnes of gold bullion has been placed onto an enormous tanker ship. Said ship is sailing towards Sicily. It is expected by many Sicilian government officials who are planning on getting it into their armoured trucks.  
It is also expected by a trio of crafty thieves who are each enjoying a lunch in their separate homes. None of them are suffering from any nausea caused by nerves. They are each extremely confident in their plan. One requires such confidence to execute such a brazen heist. They each assume this confidence will carry them right through to success.

The tanker lets out a colossal bellow of its horn, one last time within earshot of its exit port. Nobody on the tanker has any clue as to the adventure they will soon be connected to for the rest of their lives.

  
7

DaVinci considered whether he should spend any time in either France or the USA to gather more clues, since he was heading to one of them next anyhow. This consideration was overturned by the decision to go to the Netherlands....after a short stop to France to gather a few personal items from DaVinci's apartment there. The Vatican was covering the expenses so DaVinci didn't consider it much trouble.

Armed with photos of cryptic Dutch tattoos about pizza, DaVinci flew to the Netherlands from France and sought out their foremost scientist. Said scientist is Dr. Victor Pedersen, who happens to be a Zoologist working at the Natura Artis Magistra in Amsterdam.

Anyone who might doubt Dr. Pedersen's status would be relieved at the sight DaVinci saw of this man working in the impressive Artis library, pouring over numerous open books and notepads as Dante entered an approached this intensely studious scientist. Dr. Pedersen has the salt n' pepper hair of a man who has been at his profession for many years, and successful enough at it to afford having a handsome mien. His houndstooth coat advertising that he likely spends more time in the library or his office than in a lab or amongst the animals.

“Dr. Pedersen...” DaVinci says in a big gleeful tone.

Dr. Pedersen gives him a slight glare over the rim of his glasses.

“...oh, Dr. Pedersen...” DaVinci now says in a hushed, slightly embarrassed tone more suitable for a library.

The glare DaVinci was receiving converts to a polite look of attention through the glasses' lenses.

“...my name is Dante DaVinci. I have been tasked by the Vatican to seek out your aid regarding a mysterious murder.”

Dr. Pedersen looks down briefly at his notepads, an academic reflex that occurs whenever he is perplexed by something, then back up at DaVinci.

With an eyebrow clearly arched above the frame of his glasses the doctor asks, “is that so?”

“Indeed it is.”

“I see. Your accent, an American? Or Canadian perhaps?”

“Probably” DaVinci replies quickly.

Dr. Pedersen blinks three times in a quick flutter and shakes his head, yet another reflex action caused by further perplexing.

“Ok. I will admit you have grabbed my attention enough that I have considered stopping my work to hear you out” the doctor says, closing just one of the books he was working from. “So why does this matter concern me? Has it to do with animals?”

“I cannot fully answer yes or no about that as I am only at the beginning of this mystery. But I do need a scientific mind to help me, and some clues have pointed me to Holland.”

“So...it may actually involved animals in some form?”

“Honestly, probably not. But it does concern pizza a great deal.”

Dr. Pedersen pauses. He has a greater chance of maintaining this pause for longer than usual because they are in a library and one does not have as much urge to break odd silences in libraries. In fact, most societal contracts demand that you do not. During this pause the doctor does his best to evaluate whether he is dealing with a mad person, or whether this is worth exploring. The latter wins.

“Alright Mr. DaVinci, if that is somehow your actual name, I'll bite. Let's go some place where you can explain this a bit better.”

Pedersen closes his various books and pads and gestures for a library employee to come and take them to his office (all of those details being expressed in a look, a nod of his head to the right at this librarian, and a stiff eyeballing of the books). This employee scampers up and starts to pile them. Then the pair start to head outside, where louder voices are allowed, if not encouraged. As they do the library employee drops one of the doctor's notepads to the floor. At the sound of this the doctor whirls his face towards them and lets out a hissing sound akin to one would made if scolding a dog. The librarian, feeling this hiss in their bones, seizes up momentarily, then hurriedly recovers the pad from the floor and completes their clearing of the table.

A bright Dutch afternoon sun glows onto the faces of DaVinci and Pedersen as soon as they exit the library, making for a significant contrast for the morose subject DaVinci is about to try to explain.

“So you wished to tell me more about a murder Mr. DaVinci?” Pedersen asks.

“More than tell, I have things to show you” DaVinci says as he takes his smartphone out to display the forensic style photos he had taken of the Vatican victim.

Pedersen leans towards the phone screen. The bright sun is creating a glare, making it impossible to properly see the images. At first Pedersen shields his eyes with his hand, then realizing that actually does nothing to remove the glare from the screen he moves his hand to cup the top of DaVinci's phone. Now only a few centimetres from the screen and the glare removed Pedersen gets a clear view of a corpse with a shocking amount of bloody slashes across its skin. Seeing this so suddenly and so closely makes Pedersen recoil a few steps back to where he was originally standing.

“ _Ongelofelijk_ _!”_ he exclaims during his backwards stagger, “you could have warned me!”

“I did say I was going to show you things in relation a murder, sir.”

“But...how can something so grizzly have to do with me?”

“If it truly involved a Grizzly, would I not need a zoologist?”

Pedersen, rattled by both the graphic snuff picture he was just shown and DaVinci's jarringly inane phrasing, he finds himself momentarily incapable of forming words and instead lets out sounds that are closer related to sounding out consonants such as “Hhe,” Di,” “Veh” and so on.

“Look, I know it is not pretty but I need you to see the tattoos on this body. Their language is what brought me here in the first place” DaVinci says as he starts moving closer to Pedersen, holding out the phone towards him.

Pedersen takes off his glasses momentarily to rub his eyes and the bridge of his nose before replacing them. DaVinci bobs the phone up and down slightly, encouraging him to look.

“Ok, alright! Let me see.”

Pedersen observes as DaVinci swipes the screen to scroll through the various images.

“You see the words?”

“I do.”

“What do you make of them?”  
“I see what you mean about this having to do with pizza. These tattoos seem to be statements...” Pedersen observes the images still cycling by way of DaVinci's finger, “...statements about pizza toppings. The one he prefers.”

“Not all of it is he doctor. The first part is written as We .”

“Yes. Written in plural.”

DaVinci's swiping stops at a wide shot of the tattooed words. He maneuvers so that he is holding the phone out in front of the both of them. They both read it: _  
  
_ _We houden van pizza in de ochtend  
We houden elke dag van pizza  
We houden van pizza in de avond  
We houden sowieso van pizza  
  
Ik hou van pizza-pepperoni  
Mozzarella en ansjovis  
Ik hou van pizza met salami  
En wat kaas en oregano  
Ik hou van pizza met tomaat  
Ik hou van pizza_

Pedersen steps away from DaVinci. He takes off his glasses to wipe the lenses.

“Why was it again that you came to me?”

“I wanted to speak to the foremost scientist in Holland.”

“Pardon my humility, but that is me?”

“Well, you are the head zoologist at Europe's oldest zoo.”

“This is not Europe's oldest zoo.”

“It isn't?”

“No. That distinction is held by Tiergarten Schonbrunn. The Vienna Zoo.”

“Oh wow....” DaVinci says, looking away from Pedersen and returning his phone to his pants pocket. “Then perhaps it is there that I must go?”

“I am not so sure their zoologist would be anymore helpful than myself. This matter seems best handled by the police and their detectives.”

“There already is a detective involved. That is who roped me in to translate the tattoos.”

“They were not able to figure out that they're written in Dutch without a cryptographer?”

“The Vatican spares no expense when they start an investigation.”

“Apparently. Well, I do not know what help I can possibly provide. Though I must say you have arrived at a strangely coincidental time.”

“How would that be?” While asking this, DaVinci finally takes notice of sounds of a crowd that were distant when they first went outside but are clearly growing. It is not the rabble of a usual zoo attendance crowd, but far more jovial. With hoots and cheers along with the sounds of music growing along with the jubilant crowd sounds.

“Amsterdam is currently playing host to our annual Kaas festival.”

“A cheese festival?” DaVinci can tell that the crowd is very much nearer for he now has to raise his voice to ask that question.

“Precisely. Frankly, I find it to be a nuisance. It has about as much right to be in my zoo as you and your Vatican murder plot do!”

DaVinci faces the approaching sounds. He sees a parade of sorts. It has the energy and gay abandon of a Mardi Gras party. Contextually it really does have nothing to do with the zoo. It almost appears as if this party bombarded its way into the zoo and will continue to barge its way into any other venues it sees fit. Ribbons are swung, music is booming, smiling dancers wave large balls of Edam and Gouda cheese over their heads as they prance around other revellers, some of whom are throwing confetti and personal joy in all directions.

“If I complain of a migraine do not dare ask me why,” Pedersen says in a voice low enough to still be partially heard by DaVinci, but not understood.

“What was that?” DaVinci asks, turning his gaze back to Pedersen.  
  
No sooner than when he focused on the doctor, his peripheral vision was overwhelmed by the parade and his attention snatched back to it. Like an unstoppable ocean tide, these two men where engulfed by the cheese party. DaVinci cannot find Pedersen. Pedersen does not necessarily want to be found. As much as he loathes this festival, it has granted him an excuse to slip away from the strange inquest of DaVinci. And slip away he does. Pedersen, not able to see DaVinci either, moves in the direction opposite to where he last saw him. He does not exit the parade on the short side. He is doing his best to place himself amongst enough partiers that he will not be spotted in the crowd. He moves along with it for a while. As he gets far enough to be satisfied, he exits out the ride side of the parade's dancing body and into a back door of the library. As the library door closes, a hooded figure also exits the parade flow and follows through that same door.

Meanwhile, DaVinci has been moving with the parade, bobbing his head up and over as many partiers as he can. This is proving difficult due to the high amount of them waving large wheels of cheese over their heads.

“Doctor?! Doctor?!” he cries but this proves fruitless for the crowd thinks he is singing along with the chorus of Robert Palmer's _“_ _Doctor Doctor, gimme the news_ _(_ _I got a bad case of lovin' you)”_ which happened to be playing. Soon various Dutch folk are also hollering “Doctor! Doctor!”

Despite the confusion and difficulty of DaVinci's search, he manages to see the hooded figure who had left the parade and has entered the library. Mistaking them as Dr. Pedersen DaVinci does his best to swing and cut through the parade to also find that door. As he traverses through the partying, he finds many a sample of cheese in his hands. He eats them all as quickly as he receives them, as if that will somehow speed up his movement (when in fact, if he just held on to the initial cheese, nobody would stall him to refill his empty hands). Whether his eating paid off or not is left as a mystery, but he does manage to get out of the parade and then through the door he saw the hooded person enter.

Pedersen is in the library's main floor hallway that connects this back entrance to the front foyer. He is standing before an elevator with the intention of riding it up to his fourth floor office. His eyes look up at the illuminated numbers indicating that the elevator car is descending from the fourth floor to him. He took advantage of his already raised gaze to roll his eyes at the prospect of someone using the elevator (to inconvenience him) and at the whole idea of the cheese parade which made him retreat in the first place. This was an eye-roll with some baggage. In appropriate form, the numbers illuminated in descending order then ceased as the elevator door opened before Pedersen. He entered and pressed the “4” button. Looking up from this button he saw the elevator doors starting to close plus a hooded figure charging quickly at him. Pedersen pressed his back to the wall of the elevator car furthest from the doorway. The hooded figure slipped inside the car without triggering the safety feature on doors that would cause them to re-open. They were sealed inside together with four floors of journey to take. Pedersen was about to ask who this was but stopped as he saw the hooded figure raise their arm to display a shining, silver pizza cutter they clutched in their black-gloved hand. Pedersen could not help himself from taking a mental instant to marvel at how miraculously this circular blade managed to shimmer in the simple lighting of the elevator. The hooded figure then started to thrash Pedersen with the blade. If we are to rank the blade's qualities: it's ability to shine bright is now coming second to its ability to slice into a human until their death. Pedersen is indeed dead before the car rose to the third floor. By the time it opened at the fourth floor, he was now a heap. A well-educated heap that has been carved in an even grizzlier fashion than the victim at the Vatican.

The hooded figure exits the elevator car and disappears into the mystery from whence it came.

DaVinci is standing at the same main floor elevator entrance where Pedersen had previously stood. He had noticed the rising numbers and figured (correctly) that Pedersen was going to the fourth floor. DaVinci had beckoned for the elevator to come back down and dutifully it was. The elevator car, which is now acting as a temporary coffin for Pedersen, was just passing the second floor on its way down as DaVinci munched on the final cheese sample he had been handed. He realized that of all the cheeses he was handed, this was the second chunk to be Mozzarella. A curious choice considering the prevalence of the festival's namesake: Gouda cheese. The elevator arrived at the main floor with a dinging chime then opened. Inside DaVinci saw sprays of blood all over the car's walls, and the mutilated corpse of Dr. Pedersen laying as the aforementioned heap. The back of his coat and shirt have been cut wide open. A circular pattern has been carved onto his skin. DaVinci does not enter the bloody car. He stares in surprise as the doors wait for a moment, then shut. Once shut, DaVinci realizes he has to do something in reaction. First off, he presses the elevator button to open it again. The bloody view of inside it feels no less surprising to DaVinci upon this second reveal. Quickly he pulls out his phone and leans towards the corpse to get a photo of the pattern drawn onto Dr. Pedersen. The doors start to close again. DaVinci does nothing to stop them. He analyses the new images on his phone. He has a clear picture of this grim carving. It closely resembles the circular pattern that was tattooed on the Curator of the Vatican. The Curator's had a one triangular second parted from the circle, preventing said circle from being complete. This bloody new design on Pedersen has two triangles separated from the circle. It is similar. As DaVinci scrolls through all of his most recent photos (skipping past images he took of a restaurant sign he found funny, which read _EDAM & MONSIEUR_ and had nothing to do with these murders) he felt like this new carving was a sort-of sequel image to the tattoo on the Vatican victim. He may be looking at the work of the same killer. Very few people would have had a look at the exposed tattoos of that first victim. The killer most certainly did.

 _Did they follow him to the Netherlands?_ Davinci thought. _Does this mean they also followed them to France?_

DaVinci starts to move. He is not sure if he should contact the local authorities or the Vatican first. The Cleaner would want an update of his progress, if you can call finding another corpse progress. He keeps his phone out and finds the Cleaner in his contacts. He opts to call instead of sending a text message.

“There's been some news...I want to book another flight...” DaVinci says once the Cleaner answers.

8

Mikey and Aurelio are enjoyed espressos at a small table outside Bar Marocco.

“Ah have been ere for so long, ah can not believe this is my first time tryin' it” says Mikey, setting his espresso cup gently down onto its saucer.

“It is a place I will really miss here” Aurelio tells him.

“Ahm sure they got lovely cafe in Brazil...or where-evah ya go. But this place is grand.”

As Mikey takes another sip from his tiny espresso cup, Rico strolls by the outskirts of the cafe property and stops momentarily by their table.

“Is this place new?” asks Rico.

“The Pope drove past here years ago in his Popemobile” replies Aurelio.

“Then it's old then?”

“Old enough.”

Rico looks to Mikey, who winks at him, then continues with his strolling. Aurelio had managed to grab the data necessary to track the tanker carrying the bullion via GPS from his workplace. What he was telling Rico was not only a fact, the Pope did pass by this cafe during one of his tours, but also code for “The bullion is on its way and on time.” He takes a sip from his espresso.

“Mmm, yeah I will miss this one.”

9

DaVinci was feeling paranoid about being followed to France by the killer. He had the Vatican charter him another flight there so that he can be sure that nobody was messing with his things. After examining his property and feeling satisfied that nothing was out of place he chartered a flight to the USA to ensure that nobody messed with his stuff in his Colorado condo as well, and then it was time for another flight back to Holland.

In Holland he wishes to seek out another expert. He first tried a scientific mind, and that person ended up dead in an elevator. This time he would go with the strictly academic route and consult a professor of History.

The Cleaner continued to live up to his namesake and ensured that DaVinci did not have to concern himself with how the death of Dr. Pedersen would be handled. DaVinci is at the Vatican's service so he feels no guilt over them handling any matters that might inconvenience his investigation. Indeed, a dead, Dutch zoologist in an elevator is a unique inconvenience.

Despite having a complimentary meal on each of his recent flights, DaVinci felt peckish and decided to stop into a local eatery for some lunch before finding a historian to aid him. He sought out the restaurant he had taken a picture of before: Edam & Monsieur . Retracing his steps, he found it after a short while. The Cheese festival is still in full swing, and the restaurant is filled with cheese-celebrating patrons. DaVinci seats himself at the last available seat of the restaurant's bar. Priding himself on being able to use multiple dialects, DaVinci attempted some Dutch off the cuff.

“ _Ik wil graag de dagschotel_?!” DaVinci barked at the bartender. He is asking what the “ _dish of the day_ ” is.

“Kaas!” replies the bartender, jovially.

“KAAS!” yells a great number of the restaurant patrons. DaVinci can see the ones sitting with him at the bar raise their drinks in salute to cheese.

“Ha ha, kaas it is then!” says DaVinci, not wanting to defy the cheerful consensus of this crowd. “Actually, earlier today I had a fantastic sample of mozzarella. Would you by-chance have anything with that?”

Suddenly, the people at the bar seemed to lose much of their happy attitude. The rest of the restaurant, all those out of earshot of DaVinci's questions, burbled on with general sounds of pleasantries and dining.

The bartender moves closer to DaVinci and tells him, “We have Gouda kaas here. No mozza.”

“Fair enough then” says DaVinci, adding a chuckle to his speech to try and resurrect the happy energy he was getting from this bar a moment ago. “Boy, it's a real Gouda Mob around here eh? Heh hehe...”

Some of the bar patrons eyeball each other. The bartender looks to them. They look back as if to get a signal for their next move. The bartender smiles slightly, relieving the bar of any tension.

“Ah, it is but the Kaas festival is here! We love our kaas. No?!”

“Kaas!' hollers a trio of men at the bar.

“KAAS!” yells the majority of folks in the restaurant. DaVinci manages to vocalize “AAS!” edging him back into the chorus of the restaurant.

A plate of cheesy goods, all using Gouda, is dropped in front of DaVinci. This means his mouth will contain something other than statements that can possibly cause more rifts.

“Very fine english by the way” DaVinci tells the bartender between bites of fresh cheese.

“ _Dank je_ ” he replies in Dutch (very purposefully).

Just then a hand plops down onto DaVinci's left shoulder. He jolts slightly and uses his peripheral vision to see a meaty assembly of thick fingers sitting next to his face. Following them up an equally thick arm he finds himself looking at the rounder-than-seems-human face of its owner. This head does not so much sit on a neck but seems plopped onto a mound of excess meat that remained when he was being assembled (our perhaps he was just poured out of some kind of hotdog factories faucet?)

“Not from here are you?” asked the meaty mound of a man in an accent that likely started as Dutch but has since been distorted by the fatty chasm the words have to traverse to escape his mouth.

“I am not” replies the slightly alarmed DaVinci.

“Why you want Mozza?” asks the man, before letting out a breathy, sort-of burp that came with a slurry of vowels.

“Oh, I just had a sample outside during the parade and wondered where it came from.”

“Not much call for it here,” then another vowel heavy burp got released, acting as punctuation for each of his sentences.

“That's too bad I suppose.”

“So where you going?” At this point DaVinci could set his watch to this man's burps, as another comes out.

“I'm uh- actually looking to speak with someone at the university.”

“Oh yeah?” (then a burp).

“Yeah, someone in the history department. Maybe you can tell me what's the best way I could get there?” DaVinci was sensing he was less than welcome and wished to be far from this man's burps.

“I can show you. ( burp, heavy exhale ) Let's go” then he made a sound that could have been either another burp, his sinus trying to clear, or just the friction of his organs moving against the rest of is body as he turned himself towards the restaurant's exit, expecting DaVinci to follow.

DaVinci left some cash next to his unfinished plate of cheeses, and followed the flesh quinzhee-looking fellow outside. He had to match this man's pace, which was not difficult at all, but was irritatingly slow.

“Don't really care for folks bringing up mozza here. Not very popular” the man says. It kind of astonished DaVinci that this man could dedicate any breath right now to words when all of his oxygen should be dedicated to aiding his very laboured steps.

“I'm sorry, I had not realized.”

“well...gonna make sure...you don't forget now,” his breaths now appropriately showing their struggle. “you'll...never.. (burp), ” he then leans against a wall.

“We can take a rest if you like. Or you can just point me to wherever that university might be?”

“Just...a moment...I...” he then let out a series of burps and wheezes that varied in scale and intensity. They were possibly leading to vomiting (or death?) in DaVinci's imagination so he made an excuse to roam away.

“I think I'll just look it up myself. I'm just going to get better reception for my phone,” he says holding his phone high in the air to emphasize the reason for his leaving. At a nearly Olympic-calibre walking pace, DaVinci put distance between him and the noisy mound of a person leaning against the wall behind him.

Once DaVinci was far enough away to turn a corner the man-mound felt a presence near him. The killer hooded figure was in an alleyway adjacent to the wall that was supporting the man as he tried to catch his breath (or burps, whatever he may well have caught up with first).

“That man wondered about mozzarella?” rasped the hooded figure.

Craning his face towards the hooded figure took a lot of effort, but the man-mound succeeded.

“He seemed...nosey...teach'em...a lesson...”

“It is a shame that you won't give mozzarella a chance” the hooded figure hissed.

“This is...Gouda country,” said the man with pride, then he rolled up part of his sleeve (an achievement on its own given how much forearm he owns) to show a tattoo of a wheel of Gouda.

“Truly a shame...”

As the villainous voice trailed off, the man-mound felt something at his side. It was not pain exactly. His nerve endings where a bit distant for that. But something was moving. He looked to see a gash on his belly. Slim but bleeding. The man-mound tried taking a big breath in horror, but his lungs have long since devolved passed the potential of taking breaths that are anything but thin and laboured. Nevertheless, he was horrified. The hooded figure moves quickly out of the shadows, then quickly back as it grabs a large part of the large man by his collar and tips him towards the alley. Like a pile of laundry clumsily shoved off a tabletop, the man-mound tumbles and collapses onto the pavement. Using this falling momentum, the hooded figure rolls him further into the alley, not unlike one would roll a wine barrel. Once he stopped his rolling, the hooded figure takes out his circular blade and starts to go to work.

Much greater effort is required to cut through the man-mound than he had to exert with the Curator or Dr. Pedersen, but such efforts are made and before long the man-mound is no more than a late mound.

Meanwhile, DaVinci ensured he was not a liar by using his phone to search information about local historians. Using concise key words such “HISTORIAN” and “NETHERLANDS” he manages to deduce a few names as options. One that stands out amongst the results is Dr. Zozalm Lear. Not just because the letter Z stands out in a name almost as much as its neighbour from two letters over X, but because his list of publications are books focussing on specific European histories (most notable to DaVinci are those about Vatican City and Holland), plus he has a monthly food critic column in the German magazine _Großer Käse_. DaVinci sussed out that he has a residence in Amsterdam that is within walking distance to where he already is. Much to DaVinci's delight, it is also in the opposite direction to where he was being very slowly escorted by the man-mound; which is also the current resting place for the remains of the late man-mound.

The walk is not terribly long and DaVinci finds himself outside a large gate that leads to some form of courtyard. The building surrounding this courtyard is tall, old, very rectangular in height, and rather square in its diameter. It could be a series of apartments, or one huge residence that is less than convenient to traverse. The lone buzzer button at the gate indicates the former over the latter. He presses it.

“The damn Edam interview is at 9 o'clock! No sooner!” says a staticky voice through the buzzer's speaker. DaVinci assumes the staticky tone is due to the speaker...but he has been wrong before.

“Dr. Lear? My name is Dante DaVinci...”

“Of course it is...”

“I...I am in need of your assistance.”

“Are you with a different magazine? I've discussed this cheese festival to death!”

“No sir, I am here regarding a matter or pizza and murder...”

“...”

“At the Vatican.”

The gate's door clicks open and a new buzzer sounds indicating that DaVinci is welcome to come in. As he enters the courtyard area he gets a better view of the building. If their windows had more unique items and draperies, he would suspect they are indeed individual apartment suites. But aesthetically it is all rather similar.

“This is a big promise you're making Mr. DaVinci!” calls Lear from a third storey window then disappears from it. “The promise of a very intriguing tale” he says from a different window on the same floor, then disappears again.

“It's a promise I can keep Dr. Lear” says DaVinci, unsure of where to aim his voice.

“Very good sir, very good” says Lear, now, very surprisingly, from a second story window.

“Err, yes. I need your assistance understanding these tattoos I uh...” DaVinci says, still unsure where to set his gaze, until the gate he entered through closes itself. In doing so it lets out an almost human like scream. DaVinci jumps at the sound and stares at the gate, wide-eyed and rattled. It latches shut then all is silent. This gate did not make much sound when opening. Why did it let out such a sound now?

 _“_ _Verdikkeme_ _!_ I've been having trouble with that thing” says Lear, who is very suddenly behind DaVinci.

“Ummm” DaVinci utters.

Lear is an older man, dressed in a brown and greyish three-piece suit that looks as if it were from the 1930s. This greying into white hair indicates that he has a closer proximity of age to the 30s than DaVinci does. He moves and speak with a youthful vigour, making his actual age trickier to guess.

“Come up to my study. I'd like to hear more about Papal pizza or ecumenical murder or whatever it is you have in store for me” Lear tells the temporarily dumbfounded DaVinci, then starts to lead him to a door.

This door that they enter through leads directly into a kitchen. It is clean but clearly frequently used. A mix of modern, mostly chrome, appliances and faux-rustic wood paneling on the cabinets and doors.

“It is a bit funny you mentioned pizza...” Lear says with the voice and walk of a tour guide, “...I always enjoy having some on hand.” He points to a closed pizza box sitting on a kitchen island's cutting board. “Care for some?”

Perhaps it is because he did not complete his cheese lunch, or because he is still too rattled to politely decline; whatever the excuse, DaVinci nods and lets out a humming sound indicating that he accepts the offer.

In a fluid motion, not losing his tour-guide cadence, Lear opens the box's lid and pulls out two evenly sized slices. As the box lid descends and neatly uses gravity to close itself, one slice is placed into DaVinci's left hand and the other enters Lear's mouth. They do not break their pace and move onto the next room.

“I've had enough of stairs for now, let us go to my main floor study” Lear declares as they pass through a doorway into a lengthy hallway.

 _Does this mean he has multiple studies?_ Wonders DaVinci.

The pair walk past another doorway in this hall plus several ancient maps framed on the walls. From what DaVinci could gather, they are topographically from eras before the correct geography of the continents has been discovered. Most have some form of beastly caricature of a sea monster coming from the ocean parts. This has always been DaVinci's favourite part of older maps. He slows his pace a smidge in order to get a better glimpse at a particularly interesting depiction of a sea serpent. He takes a bite from his pizza slice to double his enjoyment.

“This way my boy” says Lear from an impressively large oak door he is opening a bit further down the hallway.

DaVinci takes his attention off the maps and follows Lear into his study ( but possibly not his only one ). Just as the historical maps in the hallway gave evidence towards Lear's occupation as a Historian, so too is this study filled with paraphernalia that prevents DaVinci from confusing Lear with anything BUT a historian. And a renowned one at that. This latter point being affirmed by the presence of several published books written by Lear that decorate many of the shelves and a desktop. Adjacent to the book shelves are framed accolades for these publications plus a few framed pictures of Lear accepting said accolades at various black-tie events.

“So what is this you are wanting to tell me about? More bones gathered at the Vatican? Perhaps now some crusts?” Lear asks as he relaxes into a burgundy leather desk chair.

“I would have to say ' _Yes'_ to each of those questions sir.”

DaVinci finishes eating his slice of pizza, hastily wipes what grease he can on the side of his blazer then fetches his phone from his pocket.

“Fugnh” DaVinci says, which is really just a distorted expletive. Distorted because of the mouthful of pizza crust, and an expletive because he just touched his phone's screen with a greasy finger, leaving a streak.

He wipes the screen on the other side of his blazer, uses an ungreased pinky finger to access the photos then walks it over to Lear's desk. Lear takes the phone and adjusts the glasses on his face before observing what DaVinci has to offer.

“Scroll through all you like and tell me your initial thoughts” DaVinci tells him a mere second after swallowing the final pizza remnants.

Lear scrolls through. He does not say anything at first. He just moves his eyes into the occasional squint.

“Are you expecting shock Mr. DaVinci?” he asks.

“Not necessarily.”

“I am not a homicide detective nor a coroner, if you're looking for assistance with determining death...”

“No, I am more interested in what you have to say about the symbols and the writing on those bodies.”

“Are these both from the Vatican?”

“Just the first one. The one with the tattoos.”

“Well, that is interesting.”

DaVinci, despite knowing full well how interesting a murder at the Vatican can be, feels relieved to hear this from Lear. In the short time he has been in his presence, he has felt a form of revery for him. If nothing else, his immense home and its immense old-wood decor command such respect.

Lear takes some more time to examine the images.

“Well...it seems you came to the right country. Kudos on some good investigative work.”

“How do you mean?”

“You recognized the words of the Pizza kids. Some of Holland's finest, though underrated, performers. Patriots really.”

“Yes I did. Their words are on the first person.”

“Indeed. I do not know who this person was...but they have managed to throw you right into the eye of the proverbial storm. A war really.”

“How do you mean?” DaVinci asks, not wanting to sounds repetitive but Lear's words have only deepened the mystery for him rather than clear anything up.

“Have you really not noticed? The Gouda Mob that feels as though they are under attack?”

“That's...an actual thing?” DaVinci then thinks back to his time at the restaurant. When he coined this phrase he thought it was a joke. He did notice that is seemed to set off a few of the patrons there. What has he found himself in?

“Oh my boy, very much so! There are forces who are trying to push mozzarella as the primary cheese of all Europe, but there are diehard defenders of Gouda in the Netherlands that are willing to put their entire beings into fighting it!”

“A Gouda Mob?”  
  
“They do not have any official titles, but that one is more apt than any I have heard. Despite it being a war, they do not give the impression of being an organized army. So Mob it is!”

“And the Pizza Kids are involved?”

“The Pizza Kids are the ones who sounded a battle cry! _We like Pizza_ is more than just a sensational pop song, it is a call to arms for those in the Netherlands who wish to keep Gouda as our king of cheeses!”

“But, in that song, it sounds like they are all for pizza. ' _In the morning, all the time'_...it seems to be the thesis of their entire being!”

“That is the brilliance of their subversiveness!” Lear says, jumping up from his chair and now moving around his study with an excited pace. “Just as Jonathan Swift suggested that aristocrats eat babies in his famous satirical work _A Modest Proposal_ , so too do the Pizza kids satirize the very idea of eating pizza!”

In his excitement Lear kicks over a small table. DaVinci would have normally taken that as a sign of rage but Lear is beaming with a big smile.

“So the lyrics are purely satirical?”

“Yes!” Lear says, swatting a lamp off another table.

“ _I like pizza pepperoni..._ ”

“Yes!”

Lear kicks a chair.

“ _Mozzarella and anchovies?!_ ”

“The brilliance of it!” Lear screams while raising his arms to the roof then bringing his closed fists down onto a small pile of books on a shelf, rendering them as a heap of books on the floor.

DaVinci would have continued quoting the Pizza Kids but ceased for fear that Lear would continue to smash things in this room; which he seemed to be doing just to emphasize that he has big emotions within him.  
  
_Maybe this is his least favourite study?_ DaVinci wondered to himself.

“Ok...” DaVinci considers his words carefully, “so the Pizza Kids mention their love of mozzarella as a subversive declaration for the people of Holland to reject mozza?”

Lear approaches DaVinci with alarming speed (a speed he seemed to already demonstrate when he disappeared earlier from the windows and met DaVinci in the courtyard) and has his hands upon DaVinci's upper-arms before DaVinci can do anything more than widen his eyes and shudder lightly.

“You have deduced this very well. Clever, clever boy! But even at that, you are just scratching the surface!”

DaVinci's imagination could not begin to conjure what else could be happening here.

“Those symbols would be the next clue” Lear says as he releases DaVinci from his grip then starts to move towards a door. This door is not the one they had entered though, nor is it quite as grand. DaVinci wonders if it may be for a closet or something similar. Lear opens this door and DaVinci can see that it leads to another room. Without being asked to do so, he starts to follow Lear.

“I assume, you being such a clever boy, that you recognized the symbols on those cadavers” Lear says, leading DaVinci into this new room without looking back at him.

“The circles? They seemed like a mathematical pie chart. I didn't recognize them as anything specific. I do figure they hold some significance though. Anything worth carving onto another person must have some deeper meaning, I should hope.”

Lear turns on a light switch to reveal that the room they have entered appears to be yet another study. DaVinci looks around for reasons to call it anything else but all the Study accoutrement such as nice seating, available books, and a lack of enough officious items to call it an “office” tell him otherwise. Lear walks over to another framed, ancient looking map.

“You have come across a conflict that is older than anything recorded. Those circles you saw, they are less mathematical, as you called it, than they are geographical.”

“They're meant to be a map? Or...a compass?” DaVinci felt like he was grasping a bit at straws with how little information Lear has offered so far.

“Not a compass, no. But in their own way, they are pointing you to a point in history. To the beginning really.”

“Is this a religious connection then? Something to do with Eden? If we are talking about things in the Catholic tradition...”

“My boy this predates the formation of any religion. Look at these” Lear raises his hand to indicate the maps he was already observing. “When you look at the maps of the precambrian to permian world, we see Pangea as one big mass,. But then, as the continents divided over the millennia...” he moves his hand to a neighbouring map that shows the early formation of separate land masses. “...they distinctly resemble the form of sliced pizza!”

“No, they really don't” DaVinci tells Lear with a conviction in his voice that would indicate that his revelry may be waining.

Unshaken, Lear continues, “Think of those circles you saw. How each had triangular chunks removed. Slices, if you will.”

“Yes, I can certainly picture that.”

“So now you can picture just how colossal this all is! Whoever killed these men is aware of secrets that date back to the very beginnings of our planet! The inception of pizza as a marker for how things came to be!”

DaVinci, now searching for logic as medicine for his impending headache starts to say, “So pizza is meant to symbolize...”

Lear turns to DaVinci and is upon him in what seems like the literal blink of DaVinci's eye. Lear's hands grasp his arms just as they did before. His grip, very strong.

“Pizza is a message to those who wish to deny that the Earth came to be in ways not defined by religious texts. This is why the Vatican is trying to suppress it. If Pizza proves Pangea is the true origin of our lands, then all they preach is a falsehood! The Pizza Kids knew this!”

“And possibly died for it.”

“Then you understand why we must go to the Vatican as fast as possible!”

DaVinci did not. He has never understood anything less. He was at a total loss. But Lear's literal and figurative grip on him was too strong.

10

Mikey, Aurelio, and Rico have docked their work-boat at a harbour off the River Tiber about an hour ago. They had successfully sailed the Tyrrhenian Sea from Palermo to Rome. They followed a ferry route they tested and became familiar with 4 months ago. It took many hours but their bounty of gold bullion made the journey and has now been transferred from the ship to a 4-door sedan. A wholly unremarkable looking vehicle, ideal for travelling without getting any type of attention. The trunk has been filled and the back seat filled halfway. The vehicle can only travel so fast with its heavy burden.

Rico sits in the back seat with his right arm resting atop the blanketed bullion. Mikey drives the vehicle, very mindfully. As they make a routine right turn, the car skids an abnormal amount on the dry road.

“Jeeez, this backend is too heavy! Really gotta mind our speed!” Aurelio says through gritted teeth as the thieves nervously clench their sphincters in tandem at the thought of any gold spilling from the trunk.

“I yam, I yam!” Mikey blurts.

So far it has been months of planning, days of scouting, and many hours of travelling where none of the three have lost their focus. Now was not the time to act hasty, and none of the three planned to. Their escape via the airport was near.

11

Once airborne, DaVinci and Lear chose to idle the plane in the sky for a couple of extra hours before ordering the pilot to land back in Italy. Lear was a man whose home is lousy with fancy Studies, so DaVinci accurately deduced that he is the type of man who can truly appreciate the superfluous spending of wealth, such as the Vatican funded private plane they are traveling in. Lear also took it upon himself to order many complimentary beverages and food items from the on-board staff. Said items were largely glasses of wine and plates covered in assortments of crackers and cheeses. DaVinci, not wanting to seem confrontational or rude would join with each order; obliging Lear whenever he was asked “and for you?”

The two hours of airborne pleasantries passed and the pair landed in Rome. As they handed over many empty glasses and plates to the plane's staff, they were informed that a car awaited them on the tarmac. Both men swayed down the plane's exit staircase from the effects of wine mixed with a lengthy flight. DaVinci's ears popped as he noticed the black limousine awaiting them. Nobody held the door open. They escorted themselves into the back seat.

Inside the limousine, Lear searched all of the cabinets and crannies for additional complimentary items. He intends to exhaust all he can at the Vatican's expense. DaVinci did not bother. A stomach ache was telling him that anything added at this point would feel more like a burden than a treat. Lear carried on with his search as the car moved through Rome towards Vatican City.

Lear was focused in his searching while DaVinci was sitting with his eyes closed, willing his body to digest things faster than normal. This lack of attention to the car meant they did not notice that the car had been stopped for a length of time longer than a traffic light would warrant. DaVinci started feeling a small portion of relief and soon realized this was because the car was no longer moving. He opened his eyes to see that the car had been parked and the driver was standing outside of the right rear door.

“I think the driver wants us to exit...but I don't think we are at the Vatican yet” DaVinci tells Lear, who is currently pouring a miniature bottle of whisky over some ice in a glass he found in one of the limo's cabinets.

“Odd. I suppose we should go to find out if something is the matter” he replies before quickly gulping down his entire drink.  
  
The two exit, squinting at the afternoon sun that had previously been thwarted by the car's extremely tinted windows. With hands over their collective brows they see the driver, who is dressed in all black and appears to them as not much more than a silhouette, gesture towards the building they have parked in front of. Looking away from the shadow of a man they see they are in front of a closed pizza parlour. They do not get a chance to ask what business they have with a closed restaurant.

 _“_ Inside gentlemen” the driver says in a clean, sophisticated accent.

“Is this some sort of pit-stop?” asks Lear.

“Your meeting has been moved here. So as to not draw too much attention. You understand?”

They understood the logic of meeting at a secret location to remain incognito. What they did not catch was the lack of explanation for the logic of them doing this right now. The Vatican has many a private area. Could they not easily consult secretly there? The pair walk into the building before asking any more questions of the driver (or themselves).

The inside is dark, which relieves DaVinci and Lear of their squinting. The driver follows them inside.

“So, what is meant to happen here?” asks DaVinci.

“Some cleaning” says the driver.

The pair turn around to see the driver disposing of his uniform's hat, revealing himself to being the Vatican's Cleaner.

“Mr. Cleaner!” DaVinci exclaims.

“Who is this?” asks Lear.

“The one who is going to clean up the loose ends of this investigation” the Cleaner says in a newly adopted villainous tone of voice.

“He's a task-man for the Vatican. Their on-staff problem solver” DaVinci explains.

“A Cleaner was it? Ah...so you make their problems disappear. I have heard of this occupation” Lear tells them with some amount of professorly smugness.

“I know you have. That is one of the reasons you are here right now. You and Mr. DaVinci here are two of the last elements I have to remove” the Cleaner tells them, now earning his villainous tone.

“What? Why?! YOU hired ME?” a frustrated DaVinci asks.

“Of course I did. You see, after I had removed the Curator I knew others would seek out why. I had to find out who exactly, and to do that I hired one. Mr. DaVinci, I knew you would be able to sniff out the best of those who could possibly discover the truth behind that murder.”

“The Curator? The tattooed man at the Vatican? It was you! You've been the killer this whole time? And Dr. Pedersen...that was you too? How? Why?” DaVinci asks.

“The how is incredibly simple to answer. You all flew on the Vatican's own plane. It was no trouble at all for me to join each flight and simply ride it out in a different section of the plane.”

“So this means that...”

“Yes Dante, I have seen your condo in the US.”

DaVinci takes a strong gulp at the realization of just HOW close he was to having someone messing with his stuff there.

“But most importantly” the Cleaner continues, “is you leading me to Mr. Lear here. This man is the perfect candidate for deducing just how important it is for mozzarella to reign supreme!”

“Mozzarella?” asks DaVinci, then looks over to Lear who shrugs.

“Yes!” the Cleaner screams as he rips open what WAS a very sharp uniform jacket, plus the shirt underneath it. On his chest is a circle tattoo, not unlike the one carved into his victims. This one has a complete set of triangular sections but all still connected in the circle shape.

“Oh no....” DaVinci mutters at the sight of it.

“That is right gentlemen! As you likely have already figured out, I am the primary heir to the biggest provider of mozzarella cheese in the world!”  
  
They had not.

“I stand to become the most powerful being in the world of mozzarella, and he who controls the cheese controls the world! This has been known since the dawn of history! Since the era of Pangea!”

Lear nods and raises his eyebrow towards DaVinci who cannot help but roll his eyes.

“So when mozzarella stands supreme, then I...”

“Then why give clues? Why carve that tattoo shape on Dr. Pedersen? Why any of this?” ask DaVinci, interrupting the Cleaner's villainous, revealing monologue.

“As well as on the member of the Gouda mob!”

“Who?”

“The very large man in Holland.”

“Oh...meh.”

“It was those damn Pizza Kids! They were sounding a rebellion which had to be squashed.”

Lear, again, nods and looks to DaVinci.

“Well why in the hell did...”

DaVinci is interrupted by the Clearer, “No more!” he screams, pointing at DaVinci's face. “Both of you...your story ends here. Lets us return to the car so that I may take you to the coziest of final resting places.

“I always knew I would join the bones of the Vatican somehow” Lear says with a tone of grim acceptance, then starts walking towards the Cleaner, the door, and for all he knows, oblivion.

“Why on Earth should we go along with you?” asks DaVinci, feeling he has an upper-hand since he runs on logic and nothing the Cleaner has presented has exactly made sense to him.

The Cleaner pulls out the shining, chrome pizza slicer. That alone could have been the answer, but he explained more anyways.

“You can stay here if you wish. I do not mind. But that would mean this would be responsible for your demise. And I promise, what awaits you elsewhere is much kinder.”

It's a compelling argument and DaVinci follows Lear. He is not a fighter and needs to use his brain to come up with a better escape plan. Time is now his ally and taking this car ride is the only way to guarantee some of that time.

They all squint again as they exit the restaurant.

“Ugh” DaVinci mutters.

“Yes, it is a bright one today” the Cleaner says in such an affable way that it makes his villainous mien seem all the more repellent.

“No...it's all the cheese...”

“Oh come now, you do not need me to explain the importance of cheese Mr. DaVinci.”

“Not that...” DaVinci says as he starts to lean forward, holding his thighs, “...I've eaten nothing but (burp) cheese for the last (burp) while and I think...”

Before he could burp or think anything else, DaVinci commenced vomiting up the contents of his stomach onto the sidewalk which, as he nearly explained, solely consisted of cheese, crackers, pizza ,and wine.

“My word” Lear says, with a degree of admiration for how bountiful this vomit is.

“Oh for the love of...” before the Cleaner could declare whose love he sought for relief in this moment he stumbles onto the road, away from the vomiting man and now stands behind the trunk of the limousine.

Unable to look away from the ever-growing pool forming in front of the retching DaVinci, he does not notice the sedan that has turned a corner from a nearby street and seems unable to stop from skidding to one side. Lear does notice this and moves away from the limo. As the sedan's skidding continues, the sound it makes finally starts to out-volume the sound of DaVinci's unnervingly consistent vomiting. The Cleaner looks over towards the cause of this screeching sound just in time to see the sedan be a few feet in front of him. His eyes widen as the car, travelling sideways, pancakes him between its trunk and the trunk of the limousine.

Now a grizzly L shape, the cars have forcefully combined into one unit. The Cleaner is now mostly offal and paste as a trunk of heavy gold bullion pulverized him. From the crashed sedan emerges three thieves. Each rattled but none hurt enough that they cannot keep moving.

“Shite!” yells Mikey.

“This gold is too damn heavy!” Rico angrily yells, thumping the roof of the car.

“Let's just grab what we can” says Aurelio, who is looking around for anything that can help them.

All three look at the surrounding area. Their eyes find Lear. Lear, in shock from what he has been witnessing, instinctively helps. Without blinking, he raises his arm and points to a hardware store that is across the street.

“Brilliant!” Mikey cheers, then all three run off.

DaVinci rises up from his vomiting marathon to take in the scene of this car collision.

“I suppose the Cleaner won't be a problem anymore then” Lear states in a moderate, matter-of-fact tone. It's remarkable enough that he can manage to say anything.

DaVinci then vomits some more, not at the sight of the Cleaner's pulverizing, but rather as a sequel to his unfinished first attempt to remove all of the cheese from his stomach.

The trio of thieves return from the hardware shop with wheelbarrows. Whether they purchased them or stole them is a rather moot at this juncture. They each load as much of the bullion as they can.  
  
“Help yourselves!” Aurelio yells at Lear and DaVinci as he finishes loading.

The three then barrow away. Away from this site and towards better lives for each of them.

DaVinci rises up, his vomiting finally complete.

“Care for some gold?” asks Lear.

Before either of them can consider a new life as prospective gold thieves a white car pulls up. It is the unmistakable unique shape of the Popemobile. Riding, while standing, is the Pope himself. He exits the bulletproof display case that is the Popemobile's famous back-half and looks over the crash site.

“That's the Cleaner,” DaVinci says in reference to the one arm that can be made out from the mix of blood and crunched car trunks.

“This fuckin' guy” says the Pope, now wearing a Chicago Bears hat for no reason other than to match his accent.

A bishop approaches Lear and DaVinci.

“Thank you so much for all of your help. And sorry for any traumatizing things you may have witnessed over this last while” he tells them.

“That's fine” says DaVinci.

It was not.

“We will take care of this here, not to worry.”

“Bones and gold. I know you're very familiar with handling those sorts of things at the Vatican” Lear says. The return of his snark being a symptom of him escaping the state of shock he was in.

Just then DaVinci starts moving awkwardly.

“Aw jeez” says Lear, anticipating more vomit.

Instead DaVinci sneezes.

“God bless ya” says the Pope.

It was the most official post-sneeze blessing one could ever receive.

The End

  
Dedicated to the memory of the Pizza Kids.


End file.
